


Familiar Things are Never Good

by AnnaOfMirkwood



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blood, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Hydra (Marvel), M/M, Nightmares, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Vomiting, that chair makes its appearance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-10 01:43:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4372313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaOfMirkwood/pseuds/AnnaOfMirkwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The woman pushes a button and the asset can hear the whrring of the machine coming to life. It sees a crackle of electricity along the curved panels. The man struggles, confusion and fear and anger playing across his features. The chair leans back. The asset wants to surge forward, snap the necks of the guards, slam the woman’s face into the controls, rip the larynx from the scientist’s throat while he still lives. It craves to yank free the wires, undo the restraints, pull the man free and hold him to its chest, daring anyone to approach under threat of instant death. <br/>The arms move down. Right before they touch his head, Captain Rogers looks at him for the first time. Their eyes meet. His eyes are blue. His eyes are familiar. The asset knows familiar things are never good. <br/>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<br/>In which Bucky dreams of pre-serum Steve in the chair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Familiar Things are Never Good

**Author's Note:**

> I think I tagged everything. If you see something you'd like me to tag for, please let me know. 
> 
> This work is dedicated to therealbuckybarnes on Instagram for encouraging me to write it. Pepper loves her Buckbuck.

It is dark in the cell, but it doesn’t matter to the asset. It can gauge its surroundings without sight. For example, it knows there is a person confined with it; it can hear them. The person mutters to themself occasionally, mostly curses, but the voice is deep enough for the asset to presume they are a man. His breathing is wheezy—the asset concludes he is nervous or injured or sick, or maybe a conjunction of the three. He keeps moving. He does not pace around there enclosure, but shifts where he is sitting, his clothes rustling and joints cracking. The asset does not think he knows it is here. It finds the situation odd. It is never kept in containment with prisoners. It wonders if it is supposed to kill to him. It does not remember being instructed to do so, it does not even remember how it came to be in this dark place (though that is the only thing about this that is not unusual), so it decides to stay still and silent.

After a while, it hears footsteps approaching. Three sets, heavy-footed. Guards. The man cannot hear them. He gasps as a door swings open and light filters in, blinding him. It does not blind the asset for some reason. It is able to look at the flinching man. He is small, not like a child but a stunted adult, with long and thin limbs that have pointy joints. A mop of disheveled blond hair shields his face. There is dried blood in it. It matches the dark reddish brown smears on his clothes.

The asset waits patiently for the guards to collect it. They do not. They do not even acknowledge it as they sweep toward the man. One grabs him by his hair and he yelps as he is pulled up. The asset sees gritted teeth and icy blue eyes. The asset is transfixed. The man is not. He dives at the guard’s legs, swinging with uncoordinated limbs and a wild temper. The guard holding him kicks him in the stomach. The other two laugh. The asset feels a brief urge to lunge at them. It does not understand it. The guard holding the man’s hair moves to grip under one thin arm while a second grabs the other, and they haul him out the door. The asset drifts with them. It shouldn’t do this—they did not tell it that it could follow. But it seems to move of a hidden force’s accord. It does not even feel its feet connect with the ground but seems to float after the troop.

They drag the man down a long hallway. At the end is a thick steel door with a slot near the top. The empty-handed guard pushes a button. The slot slides open, and there is a face there. The face is familiar, with its beady eyes and round glasses. The asset does not like it. Familiar things are never good.

The face takes one look at the guard and then glances at the man being supported behind him. The eyes crinkle slightly, and then disappear. The door creaks open, and they drag the man inside, the asset still drifting along behind. Then, it wishes it hadn’t.

Inside the room is a chair. It is large with places for the arms and legs to sit and straps to hold them there. Near the head are two large arms with curved panels. Wires hang down and go back to some machinery along the wall. The chair is familiar. The asset never forgets the chair. It wants to run back out the door, but it has already swung shut, locks clicking into place.

The face in the slot belongs to a short, round man. He is balding and wearing a light coat. A scientist. He is smiling at the man being presented to him, but it is sinister.

“Strap him in,” he says in English, though with an accent that is not native to any English-speaking regions. The guards oblige, pulling the man to the chair and locking his arms and legs in place. He struggles, but the first guard punches him across the jaw. The asset sees the man’s face for the first time. The face is familiar. The asset feels sick.

“Enough,” the scientist tsks, and the guards back away. “I want him awake.”

He moves over to the machinery where a woman sits by some controls. He gives her instructions. The man in the chair shifts as much as he can, craning to get the scientist in view.

“Where is he?” he asks aloud. No one answers him. Louder, “Where’s Bucky?” Still no answer.

“I said, _where the hell is my friend_ ,” he repeats a third time, his voice cold and commanding. If the asset had heard the voice without seeing the person, it would have damaged itself in its hurry to obey whatever order had been issued. But the scientist only seems amused by the apparent anger. He saunters back over to the chair, placing his hand on the man’s shoulder. The man tries to jerk away, but of course he cannot. The restraints are strong. They are familiar. The asset remembers. It wants to rip the scientist’s hand off for the man. It cannot move.

“Oh, Captain Rogers,” the scientist sneers, “your friend doesn’t even know who you are anymore. And now, neither will you.” He suddenly roughly grabs the man’s jaw and forces it open, stuffing an old, filthy rag between his teeth. Captain Rogers wheezes and tries to spit it out. He cannot. The scientist takes three steps back before turning to the woman by the controls. He smiles at her. “Begin,” he says.

The woman pushes a button and the asset can hear the _whrring_ of the machine coming to life. It sees a crackle of electricity along the curved panels. The man struggles, confusion and fear and anger playing across his features. The chair leans back. The asset wants to surge forward, snap the necks of the guards, slam the woman’s face into the controls, rip the larynx from the scientist’s throat while he still lives. It craves to yank free the wires, undo the restraints, pull the man free and hold him to its chest, daring anyone to approach under threat of instant death.

The arms move down. Right before they touch his head, Captain Rogers looks at him for the first time. Their eyes meet. His eyes are blue. His eyes are familiar. The asset knows familiar things are never good.

Electricity cracks. The asset doesn’t know who screams, it or the man.

“Bucky!”

The asse— _Bucky_ jerked awake as two strong hands gripped his shoulders, trying to pull him up. A cry tearing from his throat, he thrashed out. His metal fist connected with flesh and his assailant gasped in pain. Bucky scrambled away, off the bed. As soon as his feet hit the floor, he felt his stomach flip upside down, and then it was a mad dash to the adjoining bathroom. He emptied his stomach once and then once again, finally falling back against the bathtub, his head connecting with the hard porcelain. His eyes traveled slowly to the doorway, where his attacker was standing.

It was Steve, and there was a red blossom on his cheek from where Bucky’s fist had clipped him. Bucky wanted to dive for the toilet again, but he felt too weak to move. Steve took three measured steps toward him and slowly bent down to his level. He put a hand on Bucky’s knee and massaged it comfortingly. Bucky wished he wouldn’t.

“Hey,” he said softly, but Bucky wouldn’t look at him, instead studying the tiled pattern of the cold floor. Steve continued, “Are you okay?”

Bucky gave him a withering look and Steve grimaced. “Sorry, that was a dumb question,” he said, and Bucky swallowed thickly. _Steve_ wasn’t the one who should be apologizing— _he_ hadn’t just attacked his boyfriend, after all.

“Do you think you’re going to be sick again?” Steve asked, noticing the way Bucky’s throat bobbed. Bucky shrugged, and Steve sighed. He stood up, stepped over to the sink, and filled Bucky a little disposable cup of water. He bent back down and held it out, and he thought Bucky was reaching to take it. But the hand went past the cup and came to rest on the forming bruise on Steve’s cheek, the touch so feather-light that he could barely feel it. Bucky looked at him sadly, tears heavy on the rims of his eyes. They didn’t fall over. He couldn’t let them.

Steve let him hold his hand there for a moment before taking it in his, bringing it to his supple lips. He then grabbed the metal hand and kissed it as well, holding them both together in front of him.

“Can you get up?” he asked eventually. Bucky didn’t really want to. He wanted to stay on the ground by an orifice where people shitted. It seemed appropriate for how he felt. But he knew Steve would stay knelt in front of him until he did, so he let the taller man pull him to his feet and lead him back into the bedroom.

“Do you want to go back to bed?” Steve asked.

“I won’t go back to sleep,” Bucky answered.

“Well, we could go to the living room and watch a movie, or I could read you the next chapter in that book, or…” Steve listed. Bucky looked at him. He was still in his stealth uniform. He must have arrived home just in time to get clobbered in the face. What a warm welcome. Bucky shook his head.

“I just want to lie back down,” Bucky said and lead the way to the bed, knowing that was the only way to get Steve to follow him. Steve looked like he wanted to argue because he _knew_ Bucky better, but he let out a heavy breath and stripped down to his skivvies. Normally, Bucky would watch him, maybe even with a smirk gracing his lips, but now he watched the second hand of their bedside clock move rhythmically around its small white circle.

Steve climbed into bed and pulled the covers over them, and then paused. Bucky rolled onto his back, arm slung across their pillows. He could see Steve’s half-smile in the dim light from the bathroom as he took his usual spot in the crook of Bucky’s shoulder, his hand resting on Bucky’s stomach.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Steve asked.

“Do I _ever_ want to talk about it?” Bucky murmured. “Just go to sleep, Steve.”

“I don’t want to if you aren’t comfor—”

“I’m as comfortable as I’m going to get tonight.” Bucky suppressed a groan, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t want to watch a movie, or read a book, or anything else. I just want to hold you while you sleep, okay? That’s what I want.”

Again, Bucky could sense the argument in Steve. Conflict was as much a part of him as his skin and bones. But, as Bucky had learned (and was still learning) to let himself _live_ , actually experience life without seeing himself as disconnected from it all, Steve had had to learn to just _chill the fuck out_ sometimes. So, instead of a retort, Steve nuzzled his head more comfortably on Bucky’s shoulder.

Steve’s breathing eventually slowed. Bucky didn’t fall asleep. He knew he wouldn’t, and he wasn’t usually wrong about these things. Still, if he’d learned anything on his journey from an _it_ to a _him_ , a journey he felt still hadn’t really ended, he’d accepted that he was anything but _usual_.


End file.
